


More is Merrier

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Family Relations, First Introductions, Gen, Little princesses and their fashion, Metahuman Powers, Yuletide Cheer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Three is good company.





	More is Merrier

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up piece to last year's "Merry Ol' Time" - once again featuring my favorite leading ladies, plus the newest addition to my Gotham series. :)
> 
> Merry Christmas to one and all! See you in 2018!!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is a bit of Christmas-themed fun.

“Are you _sure_ I look alright, Mama?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about my shoes?” one foot lifts, high, for a full cursory examination of the item in question, “Do they match my dress?”

“Even if they didn’t, beloved, it would be very difficult to alter those circumstances at this point, would it not?”

A pause, then, “Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this dress, Mama. It’s so lacy—what if I look like a doily?”

“Dearest, I am not raising a table dressing. I am raising a beautiful young lady who happens to look absolutely gorgeous in her lace dresses.”

Another pause. “Is my hair—?”

“Celeste, _ma belle_ ,” Iris murmurs, reaching across the way to set a red-tipped finger to her daughter’s lips, “you have done nothing but critique yourself for the entire hour we have been in this car. Now, I must insist you relax and take a nice deep breath. All this self-examination is entirely unnecessary.”

Blue eyes drop downward, pink lip quivering. “What if she doesn’t like me, Mama?”

“She will _adore_ you, my love.” Iris smiles, showcasing teeth in a bright smile. ‘Or else’ is left unspoken, but the smile does imply as much.

The bar stands as if untouched by these past six years: adorned in tasteful décor and bursting at the seams with golden light from within, it casts a radiant shine over the white snow which laces its outer corners. Frost which, perhaps earlier, had a place on window panes now drips in gleaming rivets, suspended in their descent: wet from the heat, ensnared in the chill which permeates the air outside.

The rear door opens in the gloved hand of its driver, inviting cold where heat previously reigned. Celeste burrows deep into her mittens and coat (velvet red with white-fur trim, in honor of the holiday which heralded her arrival into this world), until only pink-tinged cheeks, blue eyes, and a head of golden curls tumbling out from the fur-lined hood can be seen. Snow has been lightly falling for the past forty-some minutes; tiny flakes scatter across mother and daughter, as they travel short distance from one door to another.

The bar-keeper is finishing some last touches on the decorations and greets them with a cheery nod. Iris has always found this man to be of particularly pleasant disposition, at least at this time of year. What his mannerisms are, elsewise, she hasn’t the faintest idea. All she knows is, come Christmas, he rivals the great Santa Claus in characteristics of yuletide cheer and blessings for each stranger to pass his way. An otherwise frail wisp of a man, he comes alive in the tender preparations of his establishment, that it will be nothing less than perfect to welcome Christmas Day. Every year, no detail is overlooked. Every year, it is truly a wonderland; a thing of beauty.

Celeste’s eyes gaze in utter rapture. She catches sight of the tree, proud in all its ebullient beauty, and cries her delight before rushing forward for a closer look, that she might better admire its lush branches, laden in garland and baubles of all color, at close proximity.

“Your friend ought to be arriving soon.” The old bar-keeper says, appearing at her side to gently withdraw the coat and hat with perfect mannerisms. “I swear, you two are on a set schedule, you are. One never far behind the other.”

And, on perfect cue for the entrance, the low roar of a motorcycle engine rumbles outside the front window and the solitary gleam of a headlight pierces from the evening darkness. It’s enough to redirect Celeste’s attention, and Iris can see her daughter making nervous adjustments to her coat and mittens.

The door opens, bringing with it another burst of chill. In perfect defiance of winter’s worst, Anastazia is only in her leathers (gloves included); she takes a minute to shake her hair back into disarray from the helmet’s confines, then shrugs out of her jacket and gloves for the bar-keeper’s offered reach.

(The tattoos are new. And…everywhere.)

“I suppose now I have to start referring to you as ‘Your Majesty’, don’t I?” lips, dark red, quirk up in a coy smirk. “How times do change our status in life.”

“I would scarcely dream of requiring you to so lower yourself, Anastazia.” Iris responds in kind, with a thin curve of the lips to match. “But you may have to reapply your charming christenings. After all, there is a true Princess in our midst.”

Violet eyes drag across the way, and a dark eyebrow lifts. “Indeed there is.” She sighs, as if greatly burdened by this fact—but the playful twinkle in her gaze betrays the façade. “Come here, half-pint…let me have a good look at you.”

With the dancing pace for which she has become well-known in her own house (Iris is considering ballet lessons in the near future), Celeste answers the summons and stands for inspection. Her hood has been cast off, but in her rush to admire the decorations, full removal of her protective garb was forgotten. In an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, Anastazia crouches down and lightly plucks the buttons free, that the child might slip free, unwrapped not unlike a Christmas present.

(As a mother, Iris finds the allusion gloriously appropriate.)

“My, my,” Anastazia murmurs, clucking her tongue with amusement, and motions for Celeste to twirl in place; the lace skirts whisper against her stockinged legs, “aren’t you an angelic little thing?”

It took the better part of two hours for Celeste to decide on the appropriate attire of choice tonight; twelve potential outfits, all dismissed, for the criminal offense of not being worthy of first introductions to her unofficial godmother. (Iris had teased, in more than one bit of correspondence, about there being no one more fit for the position; Anastazia replied that motherhood must be clouding her better sense of judgment.) This dress was too dark; that dress wasn’t warm enough for winter…desperate times call for desperate measures, and so Iris materialized an early Christmas present—which, wouldn’t you know it, fit the criteria perfectly.

(Until the car ride, wherein Celeste began having second thoughts. Such a particular little princess, she’s turning out to be.)

Nevertheless, a compliment seems to forgive all wrongs: Celeste’s face lights up to rival even the radiant glow of Christmas cheer, and she twirls once more, royal blue and white lace speckled with tiny pale jewels (“Like the night sky, Mama!” she’d cried, beaming joy, at first sight of her mother’s presented treasure).

Egg nog is served (spiced for the adults, virgin for the child) in the bar-keeper’s beloved Christmas mugs: Celeste giggles at the way Anastazia ‘samples’ her whipped cream first, and follows the example without objection from her mother. (It would be a lost cause to bother.) Lacking her godmother’s long fingers, Celeste ends up with half a dollop on her upper lip, nearly to the tip of her nose. The sight earns one of Anastazia’s truly rare, truly genuine, laughs, as she proffers a napkin and dabs it away. It is an even rarer sight to see such nurturing mannerisms from a woman who gives new meaning to ‘unrepentant’.

Iris thinks, again, of the last time they sat here, only two, and a dismissive refusal of motherhood. She still thinks, yes, Anastazia’s heart is not equipped for a maternal instinct, even for those borne of her own flesh…but perhaps there is a gem of tenderness, buried away and nudged free from its hardened confines at least once in a gentle while.

They talk, as they so often do, for hours. The grown women discuss idle matters (DeLaine Towers and _Paradise_ ; memorable events of the past year, and so on) interrupted ever-so-often by Celeste’s cheery admiration of the decorations. She tried valiantly to be attentive, to be interested in the affairs of adults like a proper little lady, but blue eyes wandered so often to the Christmas tree and its splendor that permission was happily given to excuse her.

Now, these many hours later, conversation has stilled and both women watch as Celeste runs fingertips gently over baubles of pink and gold; dances a gentle touch over a tree branch or bit of garland. Over the music burbling out of overhead speakers, it takes a minute to hear, but eventually the lull of her voice, singing along with the Christmas carols, lifts above the holiday din.

“ _God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…_ ” she sways, gently; twirls here and there; the lights rain softly over her golden curls, and ‘angelic’ becomes a befitting description for her profile, “ _…remember Jesus Christ, our Savior, was born on Christmas Day…_ ”

“You did good, Princess.” Anastazia says, quietly; Iris almost misses her words, so unused as she is to the other woman speaking in any tone which does not demand to be the center of attention. “That,” she gestures with a gentle finger, “is as close as you can get to perfection.

She takes a slow drag from her cigarette. “Aside from myself, that is.”

“Of course.” Iris rolls her eyes, with great affection. At least the dear woman has not yet lost her vanity. That would be quite a tragedy.

The hour grows late. Iris’ phone buzzes to say transportation will soon be arriving. Celeste makes her way once more to their company, eyes growing limp with a sleep she still desperately fights off, so as to not seem improper or childish for her farewell.

“Come on over here, little princess,” Anastazia says; she tucks the child in close with one arm, lips whispering low in her ear, “I’m going to show you something.”

Exhaustion vanishes from blue eyes, and they dare not even blink, for Anastazia no sooner opens her palm than a flame burns bright upon her skin. A moment, it sways, then its shape changes entirely: a figurine, faceless and lacking finer details, but it possesses arms to lift and legs upon which to dance. Celeste watches, speechless, fascinated.

“You have one hell of a future ahead of you.” Anastazia murmurs. “And I, for one, am looking very forward to seeing how it all plays out. In the meantime,” she squeezes a thin shoulder, “I’m counting on you to make sure your mom makes it back here next year: same time, same place.”

“…Does that mean I can come again?”

“Are you kidding?” over Celeste’s shoulder, a wink is thrown at the other woman, “The party doesn’t start unless you have at least two blondes present.”

“Well, that takes you out.” Iris smirks a bit. “Your hair color abandoned its natural tone some time ago.”

“I like Auntie’s hair, Mama.” Celeste says, tugging at her own curls. “I want _my_ hair to look like that!”

Anastazia smirks, but with more fondness than not. “Trust me, darlin’,” she twirls a finger around one of her vibrant locks, “how _this_ came about…you don’t want any part of it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Besides,” she pushes a hand through the golden mass, tussling playfully until Celeste giggles, “I know women who would kill to have a natural look like this. Don’t hate what the good Lord blessed you with, half-pint.”

“Okay, Auntie.” She leans forward to peck a pale-pink kiss on the woman’s cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, kiddo. Now go get bundled up.” She gently scoots Celeste towards the coat rack. “I won’t be blamed for sending a little polar bear back to Gotham.”

In the short pause to follow, while Celeste carefully reapplies her layers and prepares to face the chill outside, both women stand together in comfortable silence. It’s a silence which finds an uncanny look of fond admiration on Anastazia’s face, and an immense sense of satisfaction surrounding Iris’ entire person. ‘Reluctant godmother’ no more.

“Merry Christmas, Sugar Plum.” Anastazia says, planting a firm, fiery-red, kiss on Iris’ cheek; the contact brings an abrupt surge of heat, and the dark-haired recipient makes a mental note to check for contact burns in the morning. “Till next year.”


End file.
